He Sings a Love Song
by Regency
Summary: Set post-BJB. In which Mark and Jack finally get around to that kiss they've been putting off and Bridget gets a Christmas miracle she can't tell her mother about. The OT3 does Christmas Eve.


Author: Regency

Title: He Sings a Love Song

Pairing: Mark/Bridget/Jack

Rating: TEEN and UP

Contains: polyamory negotiations, sappiness, mulled wine, all the Christmastime kisses

Summary: Set post-BJB. In which Mark and Jack finally get around to that kiss they've been putting off and Bridget gets a Christmas miracle she can't tell her mother about. The OT3 does Christmas Eve.

Prompt: Jack and Mark pre-poly relationship standing under the mistlefoe, fighting(flirting) with words and Bridget just leaving them to it because she isn't touching that one with a ten-foot pole and also her men are really really dumb sometimes

Author's Notes: Come flail with me on Tumblr at sententiousandbellicose!

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, settings, or plot elements recognizable as being from any incarnation of the Bridget Jones series by Helen Fielding. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.

* * *

Bridget has concluded that Jack and Mark argue under the mistletoe because neither one of them wants to be the one to go for the kiss they both want. _Idiot men._ But Bridget can read all the subtle tells that give them away. Tonight is no different than countless nights before.

Jack's got his little come hither smile on that makes his eyes crinkle and his blue eyes sparkle. Mark's doing his slightly distant, sardonic act where he's being sarcastic to make the object of his interest laugh without being too obvious about how much he enjoys their delight. Jack's standing too close to Mark to meet his eyes comfortably; the four-inch height difference could be ameliorated easily if they stood farther apart, and yet neither takes the necessary steps to make it so. Mark gestures one-handed toward the mistletoe with a dismissive roll of his eyes.

She can't even hear their voices from across the room, but she can she write the dialogue from hearing dozens of conversations exactly like this one since the holiday season began:

Mark huffs in evident resignation at the sight of the sprig suspended from the doorway. "Bridget insists, you know."

Jack follows the speaking motion of his hands more attentively than required, lingering over a momentary baring of his wrists. "I know, yeah. I let her put some up in the London office. I'm going to be sued for sexual harassment by January. Happy New Year." He drinks his mulled wine.

Mark's cheeks indent in an answering smile that still makes Bridget's heart flutter from a distance. He watches Jack drink with rapt attention. "I'm sure you won't be. Or at least I hope not. It wouldn't be a very good follow-up to the red letter year we're having."

Jack chuckles. "Guess not. Of course, you could argue my year hasn't been nearly as successful as yours: beautiful baby, beautiful bride. What could top that?"

Mark fixes his gaze on Jack's, something unnervingly honest lurking in his eyes. "I'm quite sure I don't know. But I'm confident something will make itself known."

Jack raises his whiskered chin in that challenging way of his, narrowing his eyes as well as the gap between the two men. Mark's brows rise in a show of surprise that Bridget knows better than to take as sincere. Catching Mark unawares tends to result in a blank expression first and then a more implacable facade while he formulates a response. Mark wants Jack to do precisely what he's doing right now. He's lowered his head slightly, dropped his shoulders and softened his posture to minimize the height disparity.

Bridget shushes William in his highchair to watch the proceedings. Mark and Jack's previous conversations, friendly arguments over the invasiveness of being expected to snog strangers at will, haven't gone this well. But then, Mark isn't usually this forthcoming nor does Jack usually pick up on the signals Mark is sending, unconsciously or not.

"Hey, Mark."

"Yes?"

"Don't punch me for this."

That's when it happens. Jack pulls Mark to his level to kiss him, but Mark gets there first, cupping the back of Jack's neck to press their lips together. Jack holds up a finger of vague objection as Mark slides his fingers into the short hair at the base of his skull to kiss him just the way he likes. Jack emits a breathy sigh as he kisses Mark back, rocking on the balls of his feet to follow Mark's eventual withdrawal. They finally part grudgingly, with Jack blinking, dumbfounded, at Mark's cat-who-got-the-cream grin.

"Wait, you were expecting that?"

"Yes," Mark says in lieu of some of his more protracted ramblings. "I was hoping you would have done it a couple of weeks ago, but it seems you needed time to build up your courage, so I thought I'd provide a helping hand. I hope I haven't been too presumptuous."

"A couple of weeks ago? You wanted me to do the kissing two weeks ago?"

Mark cants his head in the affirmative, and Jack swings toward Bridget. "You knew about this?" Also, unspoken, ' _Are you okay with this?'_

"Let's just say, I'm not surprised. Don't let me stop you. It's a Christmas miracle." She keeps her tone light to keep William from picking up on the fact that anything unusual is going on. Just a few days short of his second birthday, William is about as observant as you'd expect the child of a barrister, a mathematician, and a television producer to be. She stops short at the thought. _I suppose he is a bit Jack's after all, isn't he?_

"You wanted me to–why didn't you kiss _me_ two weeks ago if you were into it."

"Ah," Bridget piped up, "I think I can answer that." She distracts William with some cheerios and hurries to join their very pouty huddle. Mark looks a touch crestfallen to have gotten indignation out of the situation instead of swooning. _Bless, he thinks kisses solve everything._ "Since he has me, he figured you wouldn't be amenable to him reaching out first. He didn't want you thinking he was looking to cheat on me."

"And he isn't."

"He isn't."

"I'm _really_ not."

"So…what is this?"

"Well, I think they call it polyamory these days." She'd read that in Cosmopolitan and spent a couple of hours looking into it during her pregnancy. She hadn't expected to really make use of what she'd found.

Mark grumbles despite a lack of real disagreement on his part. He hates labels; they're so easily turned into weapons.

She hadn't been quite sure what to make of Mark's careful prodding of her feelings for Jack Qwant a few months ago. The man's been a steady presence in their life since William's birth, sidestepping into the role of presumptive godfather effortlessly, if with some wistfulness. They're all aware of how differently this could have turned out. Perhaps not too differently, naturally; Bridget can't imagine herself jumping the broom with anybody but Mark, but it would have been harder on him, on _them_ , had William not been his son. Mark would have loved him with all his heart, as promised; nevertheless, a part of him would have waited for the other shoe to drop for the rest of their days, the shoe that would cost him the family he loved, even if that proverbial shoe never appeared. This is the best, happiest possible outcome–that doesn't mean it can't be happier.

"You gave him permission to kiss me?" Jack is waiting for the catch.

"That's about the size of it." More like Mark had, in that damned voice of his, enumerated all the ways this marriage might be better with three. And no, it isn't just the sex, though god yes, her husband has clearly given those benefits some thought. It's about work-life balance. Mark still travels more frequently than any of them would like and Bridget's growing responsibilities keep her at work much later than when she was lower on the food chain. Being largely self-employed. Jack has the most flexibility to fill in where they're both derelict, with William and with each other. She's never lonely with Jack around. That was Mark's leading point, the one that hit home and put a stop to their amorous business to make way for a serious discussion. Mark doesn't want Bridget as lonely in this marriage as she was in their last relationship. Nor does Bridget want Mark spreading himself ever thinner to be all things to all people at all times when he's just one man; she loves him already. That doesn't mean she wouldn't like the companionship of another partner, given that partner was Jack. "It's got to be you."

"Me? As in, what, another partner? Full-time. Not just tonight? You don't mean just tonight?" His eyes have gone as round as coins glittering in the basin of a certain fountain.

"If you'd like," Mark answers for them both when Bridget is too busy admiring the angles of Jack's face to reply.

"For real? This isn't some kind of weird British joke, right? Because I gotta say it's not funny getting a guy's hopes up like this."

Mark moves into Jack's personal space, murmurs, "No joke here," and bow over to kiss Jack again. _He's being proactive in making his feelings known._ An old dog can evidently be taught to new, modern tricks. Jack latches onto Mark's shoulders and Mark cups Jack's jaw as their lips clash with less finesse than either is capable of. They adjust in real time, Mark's fingers at Jack's pulse point, one of Jack's hands over Mark's heart; a feedback loop of two people falling in sync. _This must be how Mark and I look like to everyone else._

The two men breathe heavily but evenly afterward. Mark speaks first: "Do you want us?"

Jack looks between them, hesitant though not unsure. "Yes."

Bridget exhales in relief. "Thank God. This was going to be impossible to explain away if you said no."

"Not much chance of that," says Jack, an infectious twinkle taking up residence in his eyes. "You two know what this means, don't you?"

Bridget shares a look with her husband. Mark shrugs. There's a first: Mark hates admitting ignorance to anybody but her. This is more serious than even Mark realizes, she wagers.

She yelps upon suddenly finding herself in wrapped a pair of muscular arms, staring up into Jack's distracting eyes. "I finally get to kiss the bride."

Thus diverted, she giggles. _I can't fault that American directness._ "You've left it a bit late!"

"Then, I'd better make it a good one."

"Yes, you had."

Jack's kisses are all stubble and soft, eager lips caressing her own. She clutches the knit of his jumper, sighing. His hands are large and safe on her back, sliding over her jumper to warm her through it. His chest is firm, not hard, not the type of body that would have had a younger Bridget Jones hooting between cocktails and ciggy breaks at 192. This body is strong because it has use; it's carried Bugaboo pushchairs up staircases and toted Pack 'n Play suites to and fro home, played pony for laughing toddlers and carried them to bed when they fell to sleep. He has a body you learn to love and appreciate, and she's getting there faster than she thought she might.

He kisses her nose while she tries to regain her equilibrium. Is the room a little brighter than it was previously? No? Just her, then. Jack's a grand kisser, nothing new there, she thinks, trying to downplay her racing heart. Her diary entry for the day is going to be filled with heart eyes emojis.

She turns to find Mark's draped his bandy-legged self over an armchair to watch the festivities while drinking the remainder of Jack's mulled wine. He's divested himself of his tie and loosened his top three buttons to unfetter his neck. He's bare from Adam's apple to long, pulsing throat, down to the delicate shadowed hollow bracketed by his collarbones. His lean torso slopes into endless legs splayed before him at an angle as thoughtless as it is alluring. Bridget's heart won't be getting a rest at all tonight, it seems.

Her husband proffers his snifter of spirits, "Thirsty, my love?"

She's parched.

He coaxes her into the V of his thighs with a heated glance. They're well past the need for saucy banter to ease their way, and with a small child learning to repeat what he hears, it's best to keep the sexy talk to a minimum. All the better that Bridget would rather kiss Mark within an inch of his life anyway.

He's so tall he need only sit upright to meet her kiss from her standing position. Seventy-two inches of such a gorgeous man is really too much, she thinks, as she captures his lower lip between hers. He encircles her waist with one arm as though she might try to get away. Seventeen years now, it's been. Bridget Jones-Darcy isn't going anyplace without him. He kisses her like he's thinking the very same thoughts. His mouth is feverish and quick under hers, as if he can't pick one place to kiss so he'll choose them all. His kisses took her no time at all to love, and she has loved them ever since.

She jumps at the sensation of something smooth and startlingly hot if not quite burning sliding up the back of her knee. Mark scrutinizes her expression; she blinks, her eyelids growing heavy under the weight of his stare. That something, what she realizes must be the near-empty glass of mulled wine Mark was holding, glides up the back of her thigh. At the same time Mark uses his fingertips to trace concentric circles on her opposite calve, thumb just flirting with the hem of her skirt. Why did she wear a skirt tonight, hmm? Perhaps wishful thinking played a part. Good then that she's having all sorts of wishes come true tonight. Mark mouths the shape of her jaw as his nails scrape delicately against the tender inside of her thigh.

His breath is a burst of heat on the shell of her ear. "I think it's time we put our boy to bed, don't you?"

Largely oblivious to the words coming out of Mark's mouth but enchanting of it just the same, she seeks his lips to carry on what they started. Her husband chooses the worst moments to come over chatty. Mark hums against her lips, frustratingly thwarting her efforts to deepen the kiss.

A gleeful shout of "Da! Ma!" behind her puts paid to Bridget's yuletide hopes of a shag in front of the fireplace. She'd forgotten just where they are and who their audience is. Damn the man for keeping his head when she wants him to lose it.

He fingers her protruding lip. He has plans for her lips, she knows. She tingles at every point of contact between them and craves more.

"Ma! _Maaa!_ "

Bridget disengages reluctantly to see to her soon who's lost interest in whatever mode of entertainment Jack's been trying to distract their son. His stunned look makes her laugh awkwardly. She's been to bed with Jack, he's seen her out of sorts, sweaty, dirty, sated and sex mad; this is a mere extension of that intimacy. Now he gets to see her mad for Mark. It's a facet of her she hopes he'll learn to love as she loves to see him besotted with her husband and vice versa. _That's marriage: letting down the walls._

She gives him a small smile. "I'll take this little one for his nightly. Keep himself company, won't you?"

"Yeah, no problem."

Jack gets up somewhat awkwardly to offer her the baby. It's only then that she notices the color in Jack's cheeks and she smirks. _Jack likes to watch._ She files that bit of information away for later. She'd be happy to give him a show to remember.

"Don't have too much fun without me."

Jack makes no promises.

Mark rises to his feet to kiss William goodnight. He gives her one, too. This one lingers like the spicy tang of orange zest and honey from the wine. _Mark Darcy, the finest of after-dinner mints. Ooh la la._

He parts from her with a squeeze to the arm. "Don't be long."

"No longer than necessary. Give him a kiss for me."

Mark peers over her shoulder at Jack. "I'll give him a few."

Bridget puts her darling baby to bed with a couple of songs. He still loves to hear her sing. He might be the only one. When she goes to return to the living room, she gets as far as the hall door when she glimpses Mark being straddled by Jack in a kitchen chair.

Mark's lost his waistcoat and Jack's barefoot compared to minutes before when he was wearing his trusty lumberjack boots. They look very comfortable, Mark with his head permissively tossed back to let himself be kissed and Jack single-mindedly, passionately at the kissing. Mark's laced his fingers together behind the straight back of the chair to keep his hands off Jack. Jack is not nearly so restrained. He combs through Mark's formerly neat hair till it falls into his eyes and outlines the shape of his pecs through his untucked ice white button-down. She wonders how long he's waited to do that. _All that antagonism. How much of it was wanting what they didn't think they could have?_

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

Mark lolls his head in her direction and opens his eyes. They're dilated black and gone fathomless as the ocean deep. He beckons her over with a curl of fingers and she goes blissfully to meet him.

Mark kisses her hand. "I have a plan."

"Will I like this plan?"

He plants a kiss on each of her fingertips. "You will love this plan."

Jack shifts. "Should I be here for this?"

Mark looks at him sidelong. "Who do you think this plan is about?"

Jack is dubious. He doesn't yet understand that Darcy plans like Darcy surprises can be _very_ good and very pleasurable when indulged.

"Will _I_ like this plan?"

Marks beckons Jack to his side the same as he called Bridget. "It'll be a scream." He grins and Bridget just knows there was innuendo buried in that statement somewhere. Mark unfolds himself from the chair, loops an arm around Jack's shoulders and draws Bridget close to his side. In his rumbling voice, he declares, "Last one to the bedroom gets the blindfold first." For Jack's benefit, he adds, "If that's something you're into."

Jack's eyebrows speak for themselves, for exactly a moment before he's dashing– _quietly!_ –to their bedroom.

Mark steps aside to let her go next.

"Ever the gentleman."

"There's nothing remotely gentlemanly happening here tonight." He kisses her thoroughly and swats her arse to send her on her way.

Bridget's always enjoyed Mark's penchant for using silk ties as blindfolds. Hopefully Jack will, too.

She whistles merrily to herself as she locks the doors and checks the stove, drops an article of clothing for every room she crosses. Mark strolls in her wake, humming along softly, off-key.

Jack is waiting for them at the bedroom door, a smile playing on his lips as he sings:

 _"A beautiful sight  
We're happy tonight  
Walking in a winter wonderland." _

Jack does in fact like silk ties and blindfolds and snuggling together in front of the fireplace. It's a Christmas miracle.


End file.
